13

SURPRISE ATTACK

The plan was to return to the Howling Hall and see what I could find out. I had a few names in mind, people that I knew were close to Islana, who might still support her and know more about the Vald. The problem, of course, was that I had no idea who might be one of them, or even who might be reporting back to Magoran or Avokis. I needed to pick my words carefully, which wasn’t something that I was traditionally good at.

Leotin was off on his own attempting to chase down the men who’d arrested Islana at the library. If he could find out who directed them there, where they’d gotten their orders from, we might be able to figure out who within the Howling Hall was with the Vald. I wasn’t sure how I felt about Leotin operating solo, though. He was likely to end up in a fight sooner rather than later.

And Keterlyn, for her part, was searching for Godhead mushrooms. She had Husir with her, because Husir seemed to like the witch. All of which meant that I was alone— so something was bound to go wrong eventually.

The second I walked in through the palace gates, I was surrounded.

Four men, big and scarred, beards dyed, clad in leather and iron. One, wiry and old, leaned against his spear with a pipe hanging between his lips. He cocked an eyebrow. “You’re just the man we were looking for.”

“Damn,” I said, “Karak, I thought you were dead.”

Karak, older even than I, had been a friend of mine. Once, we’d both been young, raiding warriors, fighting side by side along the northern coasts. We’d been at the siege of Duvic together, had locked shields in infantry advances across muddy fields. We’d spent more nights together camped in damp, misty woods than I’d spent nights with Islana, sad as that is to say. Our friendship had been one of the strongest I’d ever had…it’d also ended when he’d tried to kill me.

“The young king Lukan needs you,” Karak said politely. “We were told to be on the lookout for your ugly fucking face.”

“Well,” I said, “here I am.”

“Here you are. Why don’t you follow us?”

“Sure.” I took a sudden step toward them and they all flinched and reached for their weapons. I grinned. “What’s the matter, boys?”

They escorted me into the palace and I felt somewhat like a criminal. They stayed close to me, either out of spite or because they had orders to prevent me from getting away. Not a good sign. Showed just how people were starting to view me. An old, dangerous fool making things complicated, is what I imagined they were all thinking, but maybe I was giving myself too much credit.

Straight to the Howling Hall, where king Lukan was waiting on his oversized throne. No sign of Magoran but Avokis was there. He wore all white, his angelic features twisted in a smirk at the sight of me. That was an even worse sign. I’d never seen Avokis look so pleased with himself before.

“You!” Lukan pointed at me as soon as I entered, which wasn’t a good start.

“My king.” I stiffly dropped to one knee, head bowed.

“You are my First Blade, correct?”

“That I am, my lord.”

“Then where were you?” he growled.

I looked around, then slowly rose. “My lord, I would prefer to explain in private.”

“Why?”

A simple, piercing question. I rolled my shoulders, struck with the sense that the rest of my day was going to be terrible. “It involves the death of your father, my king.”

“At the hands of my traitorous mother,” Lukan hissed. Something about him seemed different. His eyes were harder and colder, but that wasn’t quite it. It was the way he was speaking. As though he was pretending to be somebody else.

I said nothing, too afraid to blurt out the wrong words. The Howling Hall was mostly empty but there were still far too many eyes on me.

“Anyway,” Lukan sniffed, “I need you for something.”

“Anything, my king.”

“Anything,” he mimicked, attempting to deepen his voice— it didn’t work. “Would you really do absolutely anything or is that a lie?” he glanced across at Avokis. “Isn’t it a crime against the gods to lie to a king?”

“It is, my king,” Avokis sneered. “A great crime. The worst of them all.”

Gods, I wished that I’d killed that bastard back when I had the chance.

“The worst,” Lukan echoed. “And yet still, I have been insulted.”

Wearily, I said, “By who, my king?”

Lukan pointed at Karak. “It was him! He insulted me. Every time I see him, he looks at me like…like I’m a monster! Like there’s something wrong with me. He’s doing it right now, see!” Everyone looked at Karak, who stood there with wide eyes, his jaw hanging open, a fish yanked out water. I wanted to laugh. The poor bastard hadn’t known what was coming, and maybe he still didn’t quite know what was about to happen, but I’d caught on quickly.

“Defend my honor!” Lukan screeched. “Sigmund, I demand that you duel this man! To the death!”

I closed my eyes, just for a second, and resisted the urge to cover my face with both hands. I was far too old for this and most certainly did not have the time. I also had no choice because for a First Blade to turn down orders from their king meant immediate dismissal, synonymous with death.

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Karak said, “My lord, I meant no insult—” but of course nothing he could say would make a difference.

“Oh?” Lukan’s face was turning red. “You meant no insult, is that right? So now it’s you, Karak, you alone, you pathetic peasant, who gets to decide whether or not you’ve insulted me? You think your opinion means more than mine, is that it? You think you get to decide what is and isn’t true?”

Karak withered. He’d gone gray. He wouldn’t be afraid of me, of course, because no warrior as skilled and long-lived as he was was afraid of any fight. Even still, going about your day as though it were any other, relaxed and content and sure of your health, only to find out you now had to fight to the death…well, it would shake anyone.

Except for me. At that point, I was just tired of it.

Do a thing enough times and it just becomes…monotony. A chore. I hated to think of taking a man’s life as just a chore, because life and death ought to be more sacred than that, ought to be divine, but that’s where I was at.

“Now,” Lukan hissed. “Now!”

I suddenly hoped that he wasn’t my son. Although I hadn’t raised him, it sickened me to think that my blood ran through his veins, that he could be made of the same flesh as me.

Another thing occurred.

Lukan was acting.

It was just a feeling I had in my guts. A sense, I suppose, from watching his face so closely. Perhaps there was a tyrant somewhere in his soul, but this act now, this whole ordeal about being insulted, it wasn’t real.

He just wanted me to fight.

More, I was increasingly getting the feeling that he very much wanted to see me dead.

Karak set his shoulders, evidently having already made his peace with the situation. He’d always been good like that. Nothing could ever shock or shake him for long, and he’d always end up white-knuckling his way through anything.

We’d fought before, him and I. What had it been about? It was a struggle to remember. So many fights, betrayals and broken friendships. Didn’t matter now, I supposed. It would come to me later, assuming I made it through this one, which, despite the fact I’d already beaten him once, was no guarantee.

“I can’t stand to have this man in my hall,” Lukan was saying. “Let’s get this over with now!”

“Outside,” Karak said grimly. “I want to fight outside.”

Silence met that as everyone took it in and the king considered. His eyes flickered across to Karak’s spear and then he nodded. “Outside, yes. Let’s go.”

It was still snowing, though I didn’t mind so much now. There was something about fighting in the snow that sparked some joy in my heart. Sword in hand, I turned my face up to the sky. Icy kisses across my cheeks, my brow, my lips. I found myself smiling while everyone else gathered around in a circle. Lukan was bouncing around on the tips of his toes, clearly impatient, his bodyguards stoically flanking him. Avokis was leaning up against a wooden post, and if his grin got any wider, it’d split his face in half. I had little doubt that he’d played a significant part in making this happen. His main talent in life was whispering in the ears of others. That made me feel bad for Lukan. The poor boy had Magoran on one side and Avokis on the other. If he wasn’t already a tyrant, they’d turn him into one soon enough.

Karak and I faced each other, some twenty paces apart, right in the middle of the royal gardens. Snow-covered stone beneath our boots, and flowers all around us. Flowers, and an open, gray sky above. Not a bad place or time to die, I had to admit. It’d be a warrior's death, the gods watching from amongst the storm clouds, lightning distantly slashing the sky, our breaths turned to mist in the air.

The hilt of my sword was cold, my hand becoming numb. They often became numb anyway, and the temperature wasn’t helping. I switched the blade into my other hand, rolled my neck around, ignoring the familiar grinding and cracking within my body. I couldn’t move a damn thing without something clicking.

Lukan said, “Defend my honor. Now!”

I said, “Can’t we resolve this some other way?”

The wrong thing to say. Lukan’s mouth became a grim line. I stepped toward Karak and twirled the blade around, sensing that, if we didn’t start fighting soon, he’d just outright order my execution.

“Never thought I’d get a second go at this,” Karak grunted. He fell into a low crouch and pointed his spear at me.

“You think the result will be different this time?” I said.

Karak grinned. “I sure hope so.”

And with that, we began.

Spear against sword. That’s what the duel came down to. He’d be very dangerous at the start, able to stab at me before I closed the distance, and I knew from experience just how fast and accurate Karak was with that thing. Once I got close, though, he’d be in trouble, and the thing about spears is that they’re predictable. Mostly you’ll be worried about the jabs, and once you know that, it isn’t too hard to stay safe— easier said than done, of course, especially with a master like Karak, who knew how to stab from difficult and unpredictable angles.

But we’d done this before many times. A thousand sparring matches, and then a real duel, blood on the line. I’d be lying if I said that I won every match, but I was still confident that I was better than him.

Karak darted forward and stabbed up at my face. I leaned back, just out of range, already moving to deflect the follow up thrust that was so obvious. The spear came again, the darting head of a viper, fangs out and ready to plunge into the crease where my thigh met my body. I twisted enough that it instead slammed into the armor at the front of my leg. It hurt, but did no damage save for guarantee a bruise later.

And, as the head of his spear slid across my leg, only to then be swiftly retracted in preparation for another strike, I charged onward. I swung my sword, clearing the way, and he swayed back, started to circle off to one side. I cut an angle and tried to put several inches of steel into his right eye, but Karak, still fast despite his age, avoided it.

“We may be old,” I said, “but it’s nice to know we can still fight.”

“Can we?” Karak was still grinning at me. “Maybe, to everyone watching, we’re just two old fools stumbling about.”

“Maybe,” I said, and tried my usual trick of going for a knee stomp, but as I’d said, Karak had trained with me countless times, and he was ready for it. He pulled his leg back and his spear came for me like a whip, hissing through the air toward my face. I ducked under it, barely, noting the displaced air kissing the top of my head.

I stabbed at him again, and when the stabbing failed I stepped in and punched him with my free hand. My knuckles cracked against his jaw, spinning his head to the side, greasy hair flying.

We reset. Karak’s grin was gone. He was panting now, and so his age was finally showing itself. Few warriors can maintain every aspect of their fitness after long decades. I ran every single day, as far as my ruined knees would allow, but I was an exception, and lucky in that I actually enjoyed running, which cleared my mind.

“Sorry,” I said to him, and came forward, switching stances, throwing my sword to the opposite hand and then slamming the point of it into Karak's side. Nothing quite so sickening as the sensation of ramming steel into human flesh— except for being on the receiving end, which I can tell you is worse.

Karak was a dead man, but not quite done. Teeth bared, he made one last attempt, letting go of the spear with one hand and then punching me in the nose. That hurt. Still freshly broken, I heard something crunch, my vision went white, and my eyes filled with tears. Blood squirted down my face. A parting gift, and I could hardly hold it against him.

I ripped the sword out of Karak, pulling it up as I did so, splitting him wide open with a wet cracking sound. Blood poured out across the snow, melting it.

He was dead before he hit the ground. My shoulders slumped, and I said a prayer. Not to the god of war as I might’ve usually done, but instead to Asahir, Lady of Mercy and of Peace, who cries for the fallen.